


Out of the Rolling Ocean

by days_of_dust



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, oops i got a little carried away
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:41:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24936991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_dust/pseuds/days_of_dust
Summary: "She seemed to be under the impression that you were in love with me.”And there.He’s done it.Hannibal for his part appears unperturbed. He blinks, inclines his head. An infinitesimal half smile is his only detectable reaction, his dark eyes remaining perfectly, irritatingly neutral. It creates the overall impression of near bored politeness.At his core Will knows this is a painstakingly constructed mask.It doesn't mean being greeted with it in the face of such weighted words has no effect."Did she?"
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 65
Kudos: 255





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be a pwp....oops?
> 
> First Hannibal fic I've posted - be nice!

The motel room is shabby, even by Will’s admittedly low standards and after the first night he is already missing the modest but comfortable accommodations of Chiyo’s safe house. Their period of convalescence was extensive - Hannibal's surgery demanded it - but they're fortunate that the time allotted allowed too for what had turned out to be crucial planning and strategizing. Preparations on top of preparations had had to be made; Hannibal, Will learned, found it prudent to have various safety nets in place in case of emergency and/or extenuating circumstances. And Will was unsurprised to discover that the Doctor's well-used methods for avoiding law enforcement were infuriatingly clever, devious really. He was almost overly cautious, exceedingly careful in every detail; he dotted every i, crossed every t, but he was also bold, creative enough in his decision making that it made predicting their movements near impossible. He had explained their itinerary to Will clearly, calmly; he was thorough, he had left no eventuality unexplored and Will's acute anxiety about being apprehended had slowly begun to fade.

It's almost as if he's done this before.

They’ll be on the road for a few more days as they head north, yet another of Hannibal's stashed hideaways serving as their - perhaps permanent, perhaps not - destination. They'll be stopping at these, at-best, threadbare, at worst, bug-infested lodgings as need be. Will found himself stunned by Hannibal’s ease with the squalid accommodation - he’s as-always fastidious with his belongings and personal items, yes, but other than a periodic disapproving frown here and there he hasn't complained, perhaps having been long resigned to it all. Still, he looks out of place here, Will thinks, sitting straight-backed, elegant as a dancer on the wooden desk chair across from a shirtless Will, occupied with examining the healing wound of his shoulder. The skin feels stretched still and the whole area occasionally aches - Will's shoulder in general has seen too much trauma at this point for it not to - but most of the surface pain has begun to dissipate.

They haven’t spoken much, not since the fall; In the safe house Chiyo seemed intent on not leaving them alone together for any extended periods of time, which, Will surmises, makes a decent amount of sense seeing as this is the second time now that she’s caught him trying to murder her beloved adoptive brother. The two doctors who had performed Hannibal's operation had stayed with them for a few days and though they didn't interact (they spoke only what Will was sure was Russian, and all of Will's just-shy-of panicked questions during Hannibal’s recovery had had to be translated through Chiyo) their presence in the little house made Will feel crowded. After Hannibal was well enough to be moderately active, when they did speak Will could feel a pressure building between them, something bubbling beneath the soft, noticeably guarded exchange of words. 

Something, Will knew, needed to break. He just wasn't sure what or when or how to initiate it.

When they finally got on the road the quiet persisted. They took turns sleeping in the car, and even when they were both awake, they spoke only of trivial things; the drive, directions, logistics, meal options, their wounds, their supplies. For the most part, things that were happening in the now. It was as if neither one of them wanted to broach the subject of either the past or future. Unwilling to shatter this easy yet sterilized peace.

Will knows they’re both only too aware of the weight of all that’s unsaid and unresolved between them. He's concluded that at some point they must have decided to enter into an unspoken truce, a silent agreement that they will not yet investigate, dissect, or dive headfirst into the vortex of chaos that is their feelings for each other, at least not until they’ve reached some kind of safe haven. 

At first, Will felt comforted by that, by Hannibal’s willingness not to poke and prod at the temperamental beast that is their relationship, but now after a couple of quiet days on the road, the calm feels unworthy of the tension it's begot and Will itches to plunge his fingers deep into the squelching stomach of that tidy peace.

He watches Hannibal as he finishes applying the odorless medicinal cream he’s been slathering Will's cuts and bruises with over the last few days. Hannibal's been playing nurse to both of them since he was healed enough to be able. Bandages had needed to be reapplied often, stitches, those of Will's shoulder, and the small delicate ones of his face had needed to be sewn, tended to, maintained and eventually removed. At the end of the day, he had been lucky. His injuries, even that of the ugly knife wound in his face had turned out to be far more superficial than his initial assessment (or as the searing pain would have lead him to believe). And since the day Hannibal emerged from surgery alive - alive - though recovery has been slow going and they are both far from good as new, they are somehow, miraculously on the mend.

Will is reasonably sure he can apply these ointments himself. 

He thinks Hannibal is likely aware of that as well. Neither of them has mentioned it.

“This will leave a scar,” Hannibal remarks, bringing Will back to the present. His eyes are focused on his task, fingers soft, warm but clinical on Will's skin.

“Another one for the books,” he mutters noncommittally, as Hannibal leans back and reaches for the dampened cloth in his medical pack. 

"You know, Bedelia once told me that the scars you've left on me excite you." Will says, voice steady, conversational, even in the face of this pressing forward into dangerous territory. He knows as the words escape his lips that he is picking at seams, threatening to unravel their fragile repose. 

Hannibal's eyes, curious, had flipped to Will's at the mention of Bedelia's name and now they've settled on his face, alert, waiting. He seems surprised if not pleased at Will's sudden veer into more perilous subject matter. It occurs to Will then that perhaps Hanibal may not appreciate this calm so very much himself.

He must be going along with it then, participating because he thinks it's what Will wants. 

Will finds the pace of his heart has increased.

"What did you say to that?" 

"I asked her why."

His mouth wobbles around his words

Hannibal moves to replace the cloth and cream into his kit so that he may sit back, refocus and give Will his undivided attention.

"And? What was Dr. Du Maurier's conclusion?"

Will peers at him, awareness heightened as if he is in danger. He licks his lips, wonders, not at all for the first time where Hannibal is concerned, what the ever loving hell is going to happen next. 

Another inhale. 

He's oddly hyper cognizant of his own face, overly-conscious of each twitch of an eye, every flare of his nostrils 

"She seemed to be under the impression that you were in love with me.” 

And there. 

He’s done it.

Hannibal for his part appears unperturbed. He blinks, inclines his head. An infinitesimal half smile is his only detectable reaction, his dark eyes remaining perfectly, irritatingly neutral. It creates the overall impression of near bored politeness. 

At his core Will knows this is a painstakingly constructed mask. 

It doesn't mean being greeted with it in the face of such weighted words has no effect.

"Did she?" Hannibal says smoothly, folding his hands in his lap.

In the silence that ensues, Will's mind, indeed like Hannibal's, endeavors to follow multiple threads at once, and he imagines that in a spur of spontaneity he reaches out, grasps one of Hannibal's hands and moves it to splay across the scar - the "smile" - on Will's stomach.

He dismisses this audacious plan of action immediately of course, almost before its inception, but when he looks back to Hannibal's face he feels naked, as if Hannibal has peeked through some curtain of his mind and seen, clear as day, the wanderings of Will's traitorous imagination.

Hannibal's hands themselves remain where they are but Will thinks he sees his fingers quirk, just for a moment, as if they are feeling raised flesh between them.

"Do you deny it?" Will asks softer than he intended to. 

Hannibal's expression remains inscrutable. 

"I'd say it's a bit late for that, wouldn't you?"

Another beat. Hannibal’s head is cocked slightly to the side and he studies Will. Will thinks he may be able to just make out a touch, only a sprinkling really, of uncertainty playing across his sharp features, but even that tiniest of tells he finds himself taken in by. Hannibal, unsure, Hannibal untethered, Hannibal looking at him as if he is trying to make out the fine print written across Will's psyche. 

Will mirrors him, cocks his head back, stares at the plains and valleys, the fine lines, the perfect imperfections of Hannibal's face. 

“I guess so,” he allows carefully.

Another moment. And Will realizes what he himself is slightly thrown by is Hannibal’s total inaction, Hannibal is, after all, a killer. A brilliant, genius really, ruthless, terrifyingly efficient killer. Of course he can be patient, calculating, yes, but what Will has witnessed more often than not, is that in times of unforseen pressure, Hannibal will pounce, that he will make split second decisions, outcomes of which frequently can mean the difference between life and death. So maybe Will expected...if not the clear drawing of battle lines, then at the very least an invitation to pick up their usual routine, to take their assigned places in yet another deadly dance of push and pull, pursuit and escape (even if time and again this gavotte had resulted only in the both of them running in circles, lost as to who was chasing who). Another charged, perverse, fruitless, and - Will can admit to himself now - delicious game of wits. 

But no, Hannibal is not employing his legion of words, the greatest weapons in his arsenal, to either coax or impose or manipulate. There is no perfectly pleasant-in-delivery ominous-in-subject matter soliloquy being performed, no meditation on the origins of the concept of love itself, encapsulating its history, its varied forms, its follys and favors. Were this the case, had Hannibal given Will one of these diatribes, at least then Will would have something to work with; perhaps he could find some truths hidden there if only by studying Hannibal's attempts to obscure them.

But there is only this nothing, this silence. 

It is Hannibal who looks away, breaks eye contact first and the simple motion sets off alarm bells in Will's head.

Two realizations hit. 

One is that Will has once again, truly and completely taken Hannibal by surprise. 

The second is more bewildering, it emboldens him, tickles him even. It hints that Hannibal is experiencing a thing Will would have once thought him incapable of.

Hannibal Lecter can't really be shy, can he?

The silence stretches on.

Maybe Will expected denial; though it's unlikely Hannibal would outright lie to him, he's always had his tried-and-true ways of maneuvering around facts. He eludes. He evades. Misdirects. Accuses.

Will can see so many other possible worlds. Maybe there's even one where Hannibal would have reacted with quick, eager acceptance, one where he'd try to flirt using philosophy - a thing only Hannibal could do without seeming preposterous - and then it would just happen, then and there, in a crappy motel room not dissimilar to the one they're in now, and there would be breath and touching and-

Will was not hoping for that last one. Certainly not. He was not hoping and curious and excited and nervous to follow Hannibal through a doorway that would allow him a glimpse into the world of Hannibal's specific refined brand of hedonism...

Ok.

Perhaps he had envisioned some possible outcomes. 

But he's almost 100% sure he never thought about them consciously. 

Probably.

But whatever he may have expected it wasn’t this...void 

Still Will is nothing if not adaptable. 

He can work with this.

Just as the silence begins to feel too much, too heavy, Will sighs - he shoots for disappointment as he rises from the edge of the bed, moving to put his t-shirt back on, but he fears his own excitement is too transparent, that Hannibal will call his bluff and let him walk away - 

“Will."

A hand reaches out, hooks gently but insistently onto Will's arm, stopping him before he can go far. Hannibal stares up at him from where he sits, face all business. “You should understand, this quasi revelation, it doesn't necessitate a change between us."

Will blinks. And is that truly meant to mollify? Reassure? Does he think Will is offended? Can he really be so blind that he can't yet see how much Will wants, well, more?

Or then...maybe that's just what Hannibal wants him to think. 

It could be a challenge - y _ou want this? Then take it._

It could just as easily be a plea - _tell me Will, tell me how wrong I am, tell me how much you want me._

Will can see truth in all and none of them, they're all equally as likely, equally as unlikely. And since when has the Ripper ever made things easy for Will, when has he ever left any simple, easily-decipherable, goddamn straightforward evidence behind?

For just for a moment, the flash of rage he feels is a familiar and welcome distraction, and belatedly he understands something about himself, why he fought so hard for so long to hang onto his resentment. Anger is so very blissfully easy compared to, well, this.

He wonders if it will always be like this for them.

Hannibal's hand remains curled around his forearm. He swallows almost imperceptibly 

Will turns towards him. 

And then he sees it. 

It's nothing more than the subtlest of glances down Will's bare chest, it's tiny, almost non-existent, and Will knows there's no way in hell he ever would have picked up on it had he not been utterly honed in on Hannibal's face, had he not been explicitly searching for something to slip up and show itself.

It's nothing. And yet it has just told Will everything he needs to know.

A great rush of feeling then - victory, excitement, wonder, affection, anger, anticipation, arousal, - they coalesce inside him all at once, become a warm, buzzing, undulating thing, a wave that crashes over him again and again.

It takes everything in him not to laugh out loud.

He clamps down on these sensations. Reminds himself to stay just a little ways away from Hannibal's body. The man can smell diseases, Will reminds himself, he's pretty sure his sensitive noise would be able to detect whatever ridiculous endothermic reaction is happening inside his body right now.

"You'd be satisfied if things remained as they are?" Will asks, and he's really rather impressed at how calm he sounds

"I would," Hannibal nods.

"Just like this."

"Yes."

"Platonic?"

Only a slight narrowing of eyes. He lets go of Will's arm.

"Of course."

Another wave of affection. Will has to close his eyes to it.

On one hand it is Hannibal's armor that has fallen away, it is Hannibal who is unknowingly naked this time. But on the other Will is the one overcome with the knowledge of Hannibal's compassion. He's been on the receiving end of so many of the destructive consequences of Hannibal's love that discovering evidence of the opposite, of the softer side of his devotion (though Will's not entirely a stranger to that either) small though it may be, still manages to make him feel as if he's been pieced straight through the chest.

There are so many things he knows now that he didn't five minutes ago;

Hannibal is attracted to him.

Hannibal desires him.

And yet if Will never brought that idea up himself? He's almost certain Hannibal never would have said a word about it.

Will thought he'd understood Hannibal's feelings, Bedelia told him, and he'd known, he'd known for ages now. He'd always understood Hannibal's fascination, felt his obsession almost as if it were his own. But as he realizes Hannibal would have been content with anything Will would give him, with _scraps._

He can see now, maybe for the first time, the truth of it. He flashes back to earlier encounters, conversations they've had through the years, A pattern becomes illuminated. He really does, doesn't he? Hannibal loves him.

He feels himself fighting the epiphany though he's not sure why. Denial swiftly but briefly turns to anger - _how could he do all this to me then? If he loves me how could he hurt me so fucking much so fucking often?_

He almost rolls his eyes at his own thoughts.

_Because he's Hannibal._

The autonomy Hannibal is offering, promising here is done so unknowingly. Will wonders how he'd feel if he knew Will could see his cards.

Still, the respect it covertly displays overwhelms him.

Certainly, Will thinks wryly, these are things that are more or less given in most conventional relationships. 

At this point he has also lost track of how many times they've tried to kill each other.

He's... relatively confident theirs will never be a conventional relationship.

He looks down at Hannibal, at his eyes, tight with worry, and he feels like he is seeing him for the first time.

For just a moment, Will gets another flash of memory, a past conversation with Bedelia, how she'd once told him her first instinct at the sight of something vulnerable, - a bird with a broken wing - was to crush it.

He thinks about how he would then, still, and always want to help it.

And he wonders; as much as Hannibal claims to appreciate all of Will's baser instincts, all of Will's demons and darkness, if perhaps the real reason Hannibal loves him is because of his light.

Will takes one last step forward and it feels like crossing an ocean. 

He's in Hannibal's personal space, within the range of his senses. 

“Thing is, Hannibal,” he says slowly, thrilling at the way his name sounds on his tongue, "I don't think I would be."

Will will probably treasure the lightning fast flicker of surprise that shoots across Hannibal's face for the rest of his life. 

The words landing cause something in the room to shift. 

With bated breath, Will waits. 

They peer at each other.

“Satisfied that is,” Will clarifies unnecessarily. Again, he says it slowly, enjoying how the double entendre causes Hannibal's eyes to narrow even more.

A car passes outside. A cell phone on vibrate is buzzing somewhere in a room down the hall and Will’s whole world feels tilted on its axis as Haninbal’s stare continues to burn a hole through his skull. The expression Hannibal gives him is blank yet primed and it reminds Will vaguely of his dogs, how some of them first reacted at their initial encounter, assessing, ready for both attack or retreat as they tried to decide if Will was friend or foe. 

Finally, Hannibal allows curiosity to bloom in the twitch of an eyelid, lets a hint of playful skepticism bud in the shift of an eyebrow,

Ah. He’s steeled for a game and he’s willing to play.

_Always_

Irritation prickles along Will’s scalp as he gathers that Hannibal is likely going through the same second, triple, quadruple, etc., etc. guessing game that Will played internally only moments ago. 

Again, that shiver of rage.

Will's so tired of that game.

"Stand up."

Hannibal blinks once but does so after a somehow perfectly ambiguous amount of time - neither hurriedly nor languidly, only as if he had been meaning to stand anyway. And Will thinks to himself _he's worse than a cat._

In an instant they are very close, and though Will knows at this juncture that he maintains somewhat of an upper hand, losing the height advantage still dims his courage considerably. The air has shifted, like they're suddenly at a higher altitude, and with the proximity, Hannibal's eyes are minutely less guarded, something like appreciation peeking out there as if he is enjoying the novelty of the small distance between them - without it involving stitches and creams and peroxide - almost despite himself. 

Will swallows hard. “Don't move," he says, and his voice sounds surer than he feels.

He tentatively places his hand on Hannibal's shoulder, not accidentally (but then, not really on purpose either) gripping him in precisely the same place he did not long ago when they had stood at the top of that bluff, victorious, painting, drenched in blood, and Will had told him it was beautiful.

He rests his open palm against the soft cotton of Hannibal's shirt and moves it slowly across the raised bones of his clavicle. Down it goes, down the length of his chest, his fingers skimming along ribs, his touch beckoning the skin and blood underneath as Will imagines it all - fat and muscle, tissue and bone.

Making sure to avoid the still healing wound on Hannibal's lower stomach Will's hand strokes down to the hem of his shirt and then ventures back up. He stops before he hits the skin of Hannibal's neck - Will's too frightened to touch him there yet, though of what, he's not quite sure. Instead he repeats the process, sliding it again downwards, this time closer to the center of Hannibal's body, closer to his heart. He finds he likes in particular the way his palm feels against Hannibal's sternum, like it fits there, like that part of Hannibal's body was made for him, and he holds it steady for a beat.

The tension is palpable. Will can feel it on the air like electricity. 

He's aware that he is stretching taught some kind of invisible intimacy barrier the longer he touches. He wonders when it will tear. When he will break through. What it will take to break through. 

He wonders what's waiting for him on the other side.

He watches his progress, avoids Hannibal's penetrative eyes, focuses instead on the rise and fall of his chest as Will slides his hand just a bit lower, dipping into the shallow valley between pectorals, his fingers greeted as he does by the not quite steady beat of Hannibal's heart

Will finds he's holding his breath. 

As he lets it out Hannibal breathes in, and it's like they’re already a part of each other, like they share the same breath, the same pair of lungs, the same heart.

When he does chance a glance up at Hannibal's face, Will is pleased to find any air of mischief that may have been present diminishing quickly. His mouth is open the tiniest bit. His eyes are glued to Will's face, fascinated. Will licks his lips. Lets his fingers drop lower than the hem of his shirt this time, lets them graze Hannibal’s belt...

Just as it seems Hannibal may respond to his ministrations Will feels him tense and a warm hand abruptly clamps down around his own, stopping it before it can continue its wanderings. Will looks up, irked at Hannibal’s defiance and finds eyes that are hard, closed to him.

Will blinks, meets the shuttered stare with an open one; decides on a response that is all feigned innocence and seductive charm

He knows he does that well.

"You want me to stop?"

Hannibal is deathly still. Will can see the cogs in his brain turning. Weighing data, considering biases, anticipating possible outcomes. Will almost smiles.

He bets Hannibal wishes he had the forethought to set up some safety nets for _this_ particular extenuating circumstance.

A proud lift of the chin.

"I'm wary of being mocked."

Will does let out a laugh this time, it's almost bitter.

“You think that’s what I’m doing?"

“I’m not entirely sure I know what it is you’re doing."

They eye each other until Will shifts, turns Hannibal's hand around with both of his and begins to run an intrepid thumb along the raised skin of the scar that spans the length of his wrist. Hannibal lets out a soft breath.

“Care to venture a guess?”

Hannibal swallows but his face remains impassive. “If I had to I’d say you're testing me,” he says smoothly, almost casually. "Playing with me, as a child toys with an insect.”

Will shakes his head and frowns at him. He senses no vitriol in his voice, only perhaps slight resignation, as if Hannibal is willing to indulge Will, as if he is willing, albeit unhappily, to let himself be toyed with.

“I’m not interested in tearing your wings off, Doctor.”

“No?” but his voice sounds rougher than normal. Will shakes his head again and focuses his attention back on his wrists as Hannibal continues. "If I remember correctly," but his mouth closes on a sharp inhale as Will's thumb creeps further up his forearm, venturing under the fabric of a cotton sleeve.

He endeavors again. 

“In our past sessions-“ but now Will moves to lift Hannibal's hand and he presses it against his cheek, holding it there with his own, and however he looks back up at Hannibal is apparently enough to deter him from finishing his thought, which, Will decides, is a pretty remarkable feat. 

Hannibal once more attempts to finish but has to first clear his throat. 

“While I am a proponent of the notion that attraction is complex and exists on a wide spectrum” - and this is officially as close to rambling as Will has ever seen him - "I had assumed you were situated firmly at one particular end of it.” 

And Will almost laughs again. He lets out a shaky breath, closes his eyes for a moment, revels in the way Hannibal's hand feels against the skin of his cheek, the way Hannibal's pulse beats against the pad of his thumb.

"Semantics," he murmurs. and when he opens his eyes again they seem closer still

“Will," Hannibal asserts quietly, eyes roaming his face. 

But Will just lets his eyes close as he fastens Hannibal's hand more firmly against his cheek and allows himself the pleasure of nuzzling into it. When he looks up this time Hannibal’s lips have fallen open wider but still he scrutinizes Will's expression like it’s a riddle to be solved. Will can almost feel the wrestling match between doubt and hope raging in his mind. 

“You'd really let labels define us now?” Will says. "After everything?"

Hannibal wets his lips before he continues “I’ve learned through experience that taking you at face value can be hazardous to my health." But his voice is pitched lower than it was. It stirs something in the pit of Will's stomach. 

"Mm. Experience with you has proven similar."

Another approach.

“This doesn’t have to happen," And there's an edge to his voice now though Will isn't sure what's behind it. "Our relationship need not progress in this manner, not if you don't want it to. There's no obligation-" but Will reaches out and places a hand over Hannibal’s mouth, shutting him up, rolling long-suffering eyes up at him. 

"Who said I don't want it to?" His hand lingers there for a moment before he remembers to take it away

His fingers tingle where they touched his lips. 

"Now be quiet." 

The way Hannibal looks at at him now, like he is something complicated and beautiful and unknowable - like Will is both the question and the answer, a mystery he could perhaps one day solve if he could just stare deep enough - it's as intoxicating as Hannibal's attentions have always been, but what lies beyond that layer of admiration is still hidden to him. Hannibal isn't taking what is being offered, devouring it with fastidious abandon as he does most things. And though his palm is soft on Will’s cheek, it hasn't moved. Will can detect tension still in his stance, and again the dichotomy strikes him, how it's neither that of a prey freezing nor a predator priming for attack, but something somehow equally as dangerous and vulnerable as both combined. 

Will knows to his core that Hannibal would have taken the offering, years ago. He would have pushed and pulled strings, whispered poison, manipulated and seduced and done whatever he deemed necessary to ‘get' Will, if Will was what he desired. 

_Do you think you could change me, the way I’ve changed you?_

“You’re resisting me,” Will murmurs and removes Hannibal’s hand from his face, keeping it between his own for good measure. “Why?”

Hannibal again, uncharacteristically, doesn’t immediately answer. Will narrows his eyes and brings their hands up to his neck now, wraps Hannibal’s fingers lightly around his throat. 

“You want to be sure.” Will says, lowly, liking the way Hannibal’s eyes flutter as the vibrations travel down his fingers. He supposes that makes sense, 

_I already have._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The porn happens in the next chapter, promise.


	2. The Beach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very lovely commenter said that ch1 was pretty much emotional foreplay. Without further ado, please enjoy some actual foreplay.
> 
> Hope you like!

He’d thought Hannibal knew. After the beach. He’d thought it was a given.

They’ve barely spoken of the ocean. Only once, after Hannibal awoke from surgery. 

Will had looked at Hannibal’s newly opened eyes and felt a rush of relief like a physical force. He had helped him drink from a glass of water, wordlessly, thinking as he did of a way to tell the truth the best way he knew how.

“We lived,” Hannibal had croaked, and if Will had felt his heart constrict at the sound of his voice, he tried not to show it. Will had nodded, too full with all the things that needed to be said. 

"We lived.”

The heart monitor beeped. Will shifted in his chair.  Hannibal eyed Will's bandages critically.

"It seems Fate took your choice from you.” 

Hannibal's eyes were heavy with sleep but he kept them stubbornly focused on Will’s face.

"I gave up that choice willingly.”

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Hannibal had waited, patiently, watched Will as he gathered his thoughts. But when he finally spoke them aloud, Will was disappointed at his inability to articulate them properly.

“I had to,” he had said finally, voice soft but with fervor behind it. “You _know_ I had to.” This last said almost pleadingly, willing Hannibal to understand the complicated meaning between the simple words. 

Hannibal had not been angry.

“Yes.” He had agreed, voice drug-thick. "I know.” 

For a moment then Will thought Hannibal would fall back to sleep, but instead, weary but emanating nonchalance, as always, he asked the only question Will already knew the answer to. 

“And will you try again?” 

Will had had no need to think about it. He had shaken his head. 

He had already made that decision.

“No.”

And Will thought Hannibal had believed him. Had trusted that they were past trying to murder each other. Had understood that Will was on the other side of the veil with him now.

Had known that Will loved him back

Apparently not.

Hannibal's hand feels hot around his neck as resentment overcomes him again, anger spreading through his blood like fire wine. 

And why _would_ Hannibal know? Why wouldn’t it all be another manipulation? Why wouldn’t their twisted little waltz pick up right where they left off. Why should Hannibal ever trust Will is telling the truth? And why should Will believe a word out of Hannibal’s mouth?

For an instant, his mouth fills with the taste of seawater.

No. It’s all different now. It will be different. It has to be. 

They see now.

He brings himself back to the present, presses Hannibal’s hand tighter around his throat, licks his lips.  


“Come on Doctor,” he rumbles, letting some of the frustration he feels seep into his voice “I bet you can smell arousal, can't you?” and he lifts and tilts his head, an invitation.

Hannibal’s fingers against Will’s Adam’s apple remain still but after only a short pause, he accepts the offer, dipping his head and breathing in the scent of Will, greedily.

Will’s eyes fall closed. Hannibal’s nose is very close to his skin. Will’s isn’t as perceptive but he breathes in Hannibal too, smelling a wave of doubtless expensive but inoffensive cologne, lingering shampoo, and under that just him, a subtle whiff of something that is just Hannibal, his skin, his sweat, his blood. A smell that betrays his humanness. They inhale each other's scent like animals. The fingers around Will's throat twitch. 

When Hannibal leans back, Will drags their hands from his neck down to his chest, laying Hannibal’s out so it's splayed against his rapidly quickening heartbeat, hot as a brand.

“Well?' 

Hannibal's fingers trapped under Will's spread slowly, like he is touching something sacred, something burning and volatile but also holy, awesome, cosmic. His eyes are hooded now but not yet bare, not naked and exposed the way Will wants them to be. He’s letting his desire show, finally, but Will knows there’s more. He feels there's more. This is a trickle slipping through a crack. Will wants the dam broken.

"Will," he warns softly before Will can do anything else “you're toeing at boundaries that, once crossed, can't be uncrossed.”

Will frowns at him.

And how about that.

Hannibal Lecter is scared. Hannibal the Cannibal, the Chesapeake Ripper, the infamous, feared _Il Mostro_. Getting eaten alive by pigs didn’t faze him. Death itself didn't frighten him.

Losing Will does.

“You think I’ll regret this,” Will mutters and he's almost disappointed at how fragile Hannibal still believe his affections to be. "You think I'll hate you after.” A silence confirms these suspicions.

“It’s not uncommon for-"

_ Enough.  _

Will moves Hannibal’s hand one last time back to his face and, feeling particularly cheeky, proceeds to guide Hannibal's thumb slowly between his lips. 

Hannibal’s mouth closes around his words, his chin dips down low and the look in his eyes darkens considerably. Will's pulse races as he closes his mouth around the digit and sucks, Hannibal watching, lips opening, transfixed. Will feels a jolt of the aforementioned arousal hit him in the gut, thinks he can feel Hannibal's desire flare in answer. They crowd closer.

The thumb emerges dragging against teeth and Hannibal lets loose a noiseless infinitesimal snarl.

"I know what I’m doing Hannibal.” And something in his voice must convince him because finally, _finally_ Hannibal is looking at him like he did on that cliff, like he's everything, like he wants to devour him entirely. It's in his eyes. In every place their skin touches.

And Hannibal puts up no more resistance.

The first kiss is exploratory, chaste, too sweet for a kiss between killers has any right to be.

The second is less so.

The feel of Hannibal's flesh against his lips, soft and warm, it sends him reeling, and as Will senses his control already starting to slip, he thinks only one word: 

_Oh._

Heat spreads down his body like mycelium and he feels weightless, feels like he is between worlds. It’s apparent Hannibal is following Will's lead, so Will opens his mouth and lets himself taste, granting enthusiastic admission. His hands leave Hannibal's to instead find a grip in his expensive shirt, something he can hang onto as the kiss deepens, a tentative tongue breaching his mouth.

Hannibal breaks the kiss just as it's picking up in intensity, and Will unabashedly follows Hannibal’s lips with his own, searching, hungry. He is eluded and when he looks up to see the devious little side-grin on Hannibal's face he doesn't bother to stop himself from growling, wrapping an impatient hand around the back of Hannibal’s neck and fastening their mouths together again. The hand that lightly held fabric fists in it now, another has found itself knotted tightly in Hannibal's hair, and any calm Will had possessed, any composer he assured himself he’d be able to maintain is all but gone now. He feels overheated, even as he shivers.

"You always do manage to surprise me," Hannibal whispers hotly in his ear, accent noticeably thicker. 

The intimacy barrier broken, hands roam the planes of each other body, an urgency to it all; all this time they've been in each other's orbit and yet Will never knew the way Hannibal's mouth tastes, the way his body feels. There's a great sense of time lost and wasted and a need to make up for it all right _now._ It’s too much and also not nearly enough. He wants to crack open ribs, crawl inside Hannibal's body, take up residence in the cavity of his chest and make a home for himself there.

"Did you ever think of me like this?" Will asks, nudging against Hannibal's neck, and there’s that smell again, encompassing him, making him dizzy. "All those years we spent apart?" He knows logically it wasn't all that many years. It felt like an eternity. Hannibal breathes out a sigh into Will's hair.

“A room in my mind I tried my hardest not to visit,” he says regretfully. "I kept the door locked,” he moves back and gazes at will like he’s a miracle, smiles slightly. "Threw away the key."

And isn’t that another revelation. Hannibal usually lets his mind wander wherever he damn well pleases. He is not commonly one to be restrictive towards himself. And Will doesn’t know if he is more stunned by that answer, or by the wave of disappointment that washes over him in response to it.

“Why?" He asks, pushing closer, finding he enjoys the alien sensation of being held like this. He curls himself against Hannibal's body, runs his lips across his cheek. And as their hips bump together he realizes belatedly and with only a little embarrassment that he’s already hard. 

Hannibal doesn't seem to mind.

Emboldened by his easy acceptance, Will takes a firmer hold of Hannibal's shirt and brazenly rolls their hips together, a rush of excitement and nerves and arousal hitting him almost uncomfortably hard as he feels evidence that he is not the only one affected. A whine from deep in his throat escapes him without permission.

Hannibal only lets out a little "ah” but the noise shoots straight to Will's cock. He feels unbearably needy, uncommonly desperate.

"Because," Hannibal starts voice thick, uneven and Will closes his eyes to the sound, revels in how his touch can affect someone always so unruffled. His hips stutter forward again in a response that is all his body’s idea. "I...prefer not to taunt myself with things I can't have. “

Will can’t even chuckle at that, can’t even order him to open the doors, can’t speak in metaphor or purple prose or allusions. He just kisses Hannibal again, deeper, sloppier, starting to quiver with need he didn’t anticipate.   
  
"Not a peek?" He murmurs when they come up for air, pressing the issue though he’s not sure why. 

He feels Hannibal smile against his forehead. 

"Maybe, once or twice," he admits, letting out a surprised noise as Will's hands slide under his shirt to touch heated skin. And Will feels a thrill at both the confession and the feel of flesh beneath his fingers. A pleased huff of air that could be a chuckle, could be a sigh. “Even objectively," and there's a warm, teasing edge to his voice that makes Will's heart squeeze. "Physically you're beautiful." He says this like it's the most obvious thing in the world and Will tries hard not to snort as he leans back to look up at him.  
“  
"Beautiful?” but Hannibal's eyes have lost their mirth and he reaches to cup Will's face in his hands, not for a moment indulging Will’s self-deprecating tone. He doesn’t say anything for a moment too long and Will feels entirely naked. Eyes eventually falling to Will’s lips, he nods.

"Beautiful."

He stares, making sure Will takes in his sincerity, then kisses him with a tenderness Will would not in a million years think him capable of.

"What-" but Will sips in a breath as Hannibal maneuvers a leg between his thighs, mercifully providing at least some friction. His head falls back and Hannibal uses the opportunity to kiss down his jaw. “Ah- what did you see?"

Hannibal’s teeth drag down the delicate skin of his neck, threateningly, maddeningly.  
“  
"I imagined what you'd look like," he says, "I imagined what sounds you’d make at the peak of orgasm." Their hips are staring to move together in an exquisite rhythm and Will moans quietly. "Sounds I‘d incite," he whispers on an exhale and his voice isn’t helping Will’s composure one bit. He tugs on Hannibal’s shirt.

"Take this off,” he hisses and Hannibal moves back, reaches behind him and does so in one fluid movement, musing his hair in the process. 

Will never got there with his imaginings. When he did think of Hannibal in those long three years, it was mostly with an aching resentment, more directed at himself than anyone else, for not being able to forget, for not being able to let go. He doubts he would have gone that far anyway, knowing that strangely, after everything it still would have felt too... disrespectful. Had he somehow found himself in that corner of his mind, he thinks he probably wouldn't even have been brave enough to acknowledge any hidden thoughts that lurked there. 

Another thing the beach changed.

Since his epiphany there, when he's showered, when he's changed, he's found himself wondering what would happen if Hannibal were to enter. He found himself wondering what he would do if Hannibal opened the door to his room in the middle of the night. He found himself wondering how his hands would feel on his skin. How hips lips would taste. If it would be weird. If it would be pleasurable. 

At first, these wonderings came from a place of curiosity. It didn't take long before they gave way to hoping.

He hadn’t been able to stop those thoughts. Soon he wondered why he was even trying to.

The sight of Hannibal divested of his shirt brings Will once again back to the present and Will reaches out a hand unthinkingly, as if drawn in by some invisible force, to run the tips of his fingers lightly down Hannibal’s bare chest. It reminds Will of Italy, of a broken body and a bloodied mangled heart.

Hannibal's eyelids flutter at the touch and he steps forward, gently knocking their foreheads together. He shudders as Will’s fingers ghost against skin and hair, then sighs, burying his face in Will’s neck. He whispers his name like it’s divine and it takes a moment for Will to realize that he is no longer touching him, his hands hanging still at his sides. He's just breathing in and out against Will's ear. Will moves back to look at him, but perhaps it’s too much exposure too fast for he keeps his face turned and instead wraps his arms around Will fully, enveloping him, and Will can't help but feel as liquid, practically melting into the hug. 

Chest pressed again chest, hair tickling his skin; maybe it should feel strange. It feels almost too natural.

His arousal is becoming insistent and demanding but he wills his body to calm, finding he's enjoying this softness, and for a while there is quiet as he allows himself to relax in Hannibal's arms, again, a sweetness in their coming together that Will could not have foreseen. He tries focusing on that warmth, that ache, that affection that continues to hit him at every one of Hannibal's caresses, every one of his sighs. He rests his cheek in the space between Hannibal’s neck and shoulder and closes his eyes, breathing in and riding that feeling. D espite his best efforts, however, their bodies are flush against each other, they're both hard, and soon that ache combines with that of his lust and as they fuze inside him he feels lit ablaze. This joining of bodies, this forbidden, unthinkable thing, and suddenly he understands every artist's obsession with love. Why every poem is about lovers. This new burning feeling, he thinks it may be what it feels like to be home.

Hannibal pulls back, cradling Will’s face again, eyes soft and filled with quiet wonder. 

“And you? When did you first-"

“The beach.” Will answers softly, anticipating the question. 

The beach.

He gets a flash of it. Puts his hands over Hannibal’s. Swallows. "You stopped breathing. And I…”

He shakes his head, recalling the sharp bite of the cold, the roar of crashing waves, the taste of salt and the scent of wet sand beneath him. His sea-drenched clothes and how they stuck like a second skin to his body. The thrumming, burning pain of his injures merely a background noise as his eyes landed on the sight of Hannibal’s unmoving form. 

There was the drop of his stomach, more intense than what he felt during the actual fall from the cliff, when he felt with shaking hands for a pulse and found there was none. A bone chilling sensation, like ice shattering in his veins as he struggled to comprehend that Hannibal was gone. He was gone and Will wasn't. An overwhelming vertigo as his life shattered, again, into pieces, only this time, the pain was unendurable. 

He felt he was watching his own body from outside himself as he administered CPR, ignoring how fire flared up and down his ruined shoulder, ignoring how it sent waves of agony to the gaping hole in his face, ignoring the stinging of his eyes, the water perhaps, dripping from his chin, from his hair. 

The broken sound of his sob. 

Hannibal’s lips were cold. They tasted of blood and ocean.  
  
It was the ragged sound of Hannibal's miraculous hard-won breath that had been the beginning and the end. There was everything before Hannibal took that gasp of oxygen. And then there was everything after.

Bringing his mind back to the motel room, Will shakes his head, willing away the image. “You were dead.” He says flatly, swallowing down the memory and the rush of emotions it inspires. “And then. And then you weren’t.”

Hannibal watches him closely, and Will gets the feeling that every word that falls from his lips is being memorized and stored away in his memory palace for all eternity.

“When I felt your heart beating again, when you took a breath. I just…I knew.”

“Knew." Hannibal repeats gently, and Will is slow to look back up at him, afraid of showing too much. "What was it you knew?” but Hannibal's hard edges are all softened, his eyes are practically brimming with affection, and, really he must know now anyway. Will leans in to him, if only to allow the living breathing body against him chase away the sensations of that night.

“You want me to say it?" he breathes against Hannibal’s lips.

And now Hannibal smiles that most genuine of his smiles, the one that spreads slow, lights up his face like a damn sunrise, the one Will thinks may be meant only for him.

“Say what?” He is reverent, eyes hungry. Will huffs out a breath.

“That you’re mine.” And somehow their mouths find each others' again.

Will winds his arms up Hannibal shoulders, rakes his hands through Hannibal’s hair, grips it, holding him tight.  The needs of his body are becoming impossible to ignore and Will begins to grind himself again Hannibal unashamedly, pushing his erection into his thigh and groaning at the pressure. There's a hum in Will’s ear, a sound of panting; hands on his body that ground him and send him reeling in equal measure. His skin is too tight, his corporal form can’t contain him. 

"What do you want, Will?" Hannibal whispers, all quiet fierceness, and desire coils tightly in the pit of Will's stomach. He likes the edge to Hannibal's voice, likes how he can hear him unraveling, and it’s his turn to evade Hannibal's kiss, instead taking in the sight of him. His lips are swollen and red, his usually pristine hair is tangled, his eyelids are heavy, the eyes underneath them heated, bordering on feral. The fading light of dusk falls across his skin like sheets of silk, the sun itself jealous of Will’s unfettered access. 

He's beautiful and Will doesn't know how he didn't notice it before.

They’re kissing again. He doesn’t remember who initiated it.

He's caught up in the taste of Hannibal and how his scruff feels against his own, the way his tongue swirls dexterously in his mouth and how their muffled moans sound like music and so Will doesn’t immediately notice Hannibal's fingers undoing his fly, doesn’t notice that Hannibal's hands are on him until he curls one around Will’s cock through the fabric of his boxers. Will can’t stifle the choked moan the motion rips from him and Hannibal breaks from their kiss to join him in letting out a sound of pleasure. The heat is too enticing and Will can't help but thrust up into it immediately, not even caring of the wanton sound he makes.

“God," he grunts,”Hannibal-" his heart pounds in his chest like a bird trying to tear free and he presses his forehead again Hannibal's temple sucking in a breath as deft fingers hurry to free his cock from the confines of his boxers. 

A moment of cool air, and then there's a hand wrapping around him and all at once it’s skin on skin. He lets out a long, low groan, breathing suddenly becoming difficult, as Hannibal starts stroking him slowly, agonizingly slowly. They’re too tangled for Will to get much leverage but he tries, pumping his hips eagerly up into Hannibal’s fist, pleading, silently for more. 

Before he can set a proper rhythm, abruptly Hannibal unhands him and, without further preamble, falls fluidly to his knees. Will’s eyes snap open at the sudden cruel absence of Hannibal’s touch but disappointment is quickly replaced by surprise at the sight of his once fiercest adversary on his knees on the ground in front of him, looking up at Will as if to worship him. Hannibal’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and then there's no room left for surprise, as the look Hannibal gives him offsets any sensation but want. 

Hannibal eagerly kneeling for him. It fills Will with a carnality he's never known before.

They stare at each other for a moment, both enjoying their perspective views until Will cants forward, shamelessly shoving himself against Hannibal's mouth. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders if Hannibal will consider that rude. Wonders what bedroom etiquette is even like for someone like Hannibal Lecter. But Hannibal only leans forward obligingly, teasingly brushing the head of Will’s cock with lips that feel like satin. The sensation is electric, like a shock and h e steps forward chasing it, carding fingers through Hannibal's hair, marveling at how much he likes it, how soft it is, how much he wants to pull on it, how much he wants, wants, wants. 

The more he recognizes the depth of that want the stronger it get.  H e wants to make Hannibal feel as much pleasure as he's given him pain. He wants to see his dismay when he takes it away, his gratitude when he gives it back again. He wants to see Hannibal completely undone. Torn apart and put back together again, made anew, a different animal entirely by Will's influence.

That’s really what Hannibal did to him, wasn’t it?

Will thrusts himself against Hannibal’s face again, obscenely and this time Hannibal’s tongue slips out, hot, barely grazing but sending jolts of pleasure up Will's spine.

“Come on,” Will bares his teeth. " _Come on_." 

Hannibal for his part is particularly agreeable and does not torture him further. Or maybe he's just is too starved himself to pretend he is unaffected.

Hands move to the waist of Will’s undone pants and Hannibal scrapes fingernails lightly down Will’s sides, goosebumps blossoming in their wake. Will shivers and Hannibal lets loose a self-satisfied grin, crowds in closer, kneads and squeezes tight the skin of Will's back. Feather light kisses are placed just north of where Will wants him, lips dragging against Will's belly, tongue flicking out to taste his scar. Will lets out a shaky breath as their eyes meet and he tightens a fist in Hannibal hair. Tugs.

Something about the gesture gives Will the outcome he desired and Hannibal moves to jerk Will’s pants and boxers down and off. Will's cock pops free as Hannibal helps him step out of his clothing and suddenly he is very, very naked.

An unwelcome, unusual shyness comes over him all at once and he is slow to look back down at Hannibal, feeling unmoored. But Hannibal only stares at Will’s body in admiration, breathes out in appreciation, then, eyes rolling lazily up to Will’s, curls a hand around the base of his cock. Will bites his lower lip hard, watching as Hannibal’s inviting mouth opens and he lightly licks, then mouths at the head. W ill shudders, surprises himself at the strangled cry he lets out

Maybe he should be _more_ surprised by how turned on he is, maybe he should be questioning and second guessing, maybe he should take a step back and think about what's happening, what this all _means_. 

Instead he drops his head back, closes his eyes and lets out a long moan as Hannibal's mouth, sinfully hot and wet, at last closes around him.

He allows himself to focus in on the sensation, his hand twitching in Hannibal’s hair as he starts to suck, taking him deeper little by little, tongue swirling deftly at every up-drag of his lips. And thank God, Hannibal doesn't tease him for long. Maybe Will’s not the only one who didn’t fully predict his desire because Hannibal begins to work him like a man starved, taking him as deep as he can tongue continuing to twirl viscously. Will adds a second hand to Hannibal’s hair, not pushing, not yet, just enjoying how it feels between his fingers. 

He becomes aware after an unknowable amount of time that he’s been talking. He thinks there are a lot of 'fuck's and 'oh's and 'yeah's but he can’t be sure and he's too distracted to care. He can sense Hannibal's excitement all around them, feel it in the way he groans around Will’s skin and Will’s hips start to jerk forward of their own accord, pumping haltingly into the slick hotness. A sort of feedback loop is set in motion between them, it makes almost Will tipsy with pleasure.

After a time he manages to open his eyes and look back down at Hannibal and though Hannibal is watching him with passion there’s a smugness in his expression, pride, fucking _arrogance_ and Will suddenly doesn’t want what his body wants. Not yet. Not first. 

If they're not playing games anymore why does he still feel like he’s losing?

It’s infantile, the emotion the expression inspires - _I’ll show him_ \- yet at the same time the way it sparks something dark and wicked in him excites him.

He tugs, hard this time, at Hannibal’s hair to stop him, and after a moment of struggle Hannibal moves back and off, running a tongue over his lips like he’s savoring how Will tastes. Will almost moans again at just that. He pulls Hannibal’s hair instead again. 

“Get up,” he nearly snarls and Hannibal glares up at him, miffed at being interrupted as he was performing, what was likely, to him, the fellatio equivalent of a symphony, and he frowns disapprovingly at Will as if he has uncouthly clapped between movements. Still h e does what he's told, gracefully rising and then moving in for another kiss. Will stops him, grabs his wrists roughly and then pulling them behind his back, turns the both of them so that Hannibal is pressed up against the wall. 

Hannibal lets him do this, the way a tiger lets you pet them.

There’s a sinister little smile on his face, heat seeping through every inch of it.

Will hardens his features "Don’t move," he orders and he squeezes his wrists for emphasis before dropping a hand between Hannibal's legs. His stomach drops as he ventures to palm lightly at the bulge in his pants, pushing his knee between Hannibal’s as he does this, nudging his legs open further. He can feel the pulse in his ears as he shakily begins undoing Hannibal's belt.

Will glances up and Hannibal is watching his every movement, rapt.

“I’m in control now,” Will sneers, an unbidden bitter edge finding its way to his words.  Clinking metal and the belt is whisked from his belt loops and tossed haphazardly to the floor. “For once.”

Making sure Hannibal’s hands stay where they are, he moves to unzip Hannibal’s fly his heart beating furiously against his ribcage. For some reason, it feels momentous, as if had Will only been touched and not done the touching, he’d be able to stay on one side of some vague dreamlike precipice.

He can still step back from the edge. 

Hannibal’s cock strains against his briefs, his breath is coming quicker, his hands are pressed against the wall as Will instructed. And Will doesn’t want to step back. Will has no intention of stepping back ever again. 

He reaches to touch him with unsteady hands looking up at Hannibal again before he does.

And Hannibal’s face has changed, a gentle incredulity pasted across his features.

“Will,” he murmurs, and something in his voice, something profoundly honest, something raw, stills Will's hands. “You’ve been in control for a very long time now."

Will swallows thickly. There’s that devotion in Hannibal’s expression again, one that seems ancient, as if they’d been lovers in past lives, as if not even death itself could keep Hannibal away from him. 

Hannibal will give him anything he wishes. Will knows it, Will _feels it._ And any venom inside him is exorcised in an instant. T he edge has never called him more.

He takes a deep breath and wraps a hand around Hannibal through fabric, pleased by the reaction as Hannibal’s eyelids flutter and he lets out a soft breathy not-quite moan. He maintains eye contact with Will, something about that feeling more intense than anything else even as Will creeps a hand past the waistband of his underwear and frees him, squeezes him.

He feels like his entire body is vibrating as he begins to stroke gently, quiet little huffs the only sounds escaping Hannibal's lips, who, for his part continues to keep his hands against the wall obediently keeping still though Will can see the muscles in his abdomen struggling with the effort. The acquiescence jogs something loose in Will’s chest.

Will wets his lips, and, more confident now that he has jumped, begins to pump Hannibal’s cock in earnest, and though he can’t recall another time he was especially attracted to another man’s body he finds himself fascinated by it. Hannibal is hard as marble and soft as velvet. Will finds himself engrossed by the weight, the way it twitches and pulses in his hand as he strokes faster, twisting his wrist just so.  Maybe it's because it’s Hannibal, a significant and as yet unknown piece of him, and the possibility there feels overwhelming. He’s been intimate with Hannibal’s mind; the reality of being intimate with his body, the novelty, the erotism of that...

He licks his lips again mouth suddenly very dry. He’s never touched another man like this before, and for a brief moment, self-consciousness slinks in, but as he watches Hannibal’s reactions, subtle at first but becoming more overt the longer Will touches, it becomes clear that his bodily form is merely an extension of that mind Will already knows so well, and he can extrapolate, can practically feel when Hannibal experiences pleasure, so much so that the how soon begins to feel effortless.

There's a surreality permeating everything. The way the fading sun, peaking through the windows, colors them in light and shadow. The way the unflappable Hannibal Lecter, sophisticated, pretentious, acutely dangerous Hannibal Lecter is quivering beneath Will's hands. God, the fact that Hannibal has a hard on in general. That he's a man, flesh and blood; that as much as he acts and is often perceived to be otherwise, he is human - it’s both bewildering and undeniably arousing. 

So easily read, so exposed, so very, very vulnerable.

Will flips eyes back to Hannibal’s face, enraptured by the tiny reactions, every noise pulled forth from his lips, every grunt and sigh a little victory. 

Of course, it's also an aphrodisiac; Will is not unaffected and soon his own sounds are matching that of Hannibal’s, as if Will were the one being touched.

The abridged jerking of Hannibal’s hips becomes more frenzied as Will increases his speed and Hannibal becomes conspicuously more desperate, more fervent with each drag of his fist, a crease Will’s never before noticed forming on his forehead above a pair of burning eyes. Will is almost painfully hard, clearly appreciating Hannibal’s struggling to stay still under his ministrations, and he knows his face is reflecting Hannibal's desperation right back at him.

“Will,“ and it's a broken sound, the closest he thinks he’s ever heard to Hannibal begging. 

“Fuck,” Will says, and crashes their mouths together.

“Let me touch you," Hannibal rasps between kisses, “please."

And Will says “Yes,” and all but shoves his cock into Hannibal's waiting hand. 

They continue like that for an immeasurable amount of time, kissing deeply, tongues familiar enough to be bold now, teeth knocking together in their frenzy, arms wrapped around the other, bodies rocking together, hands working each other. The sounds of lips and flesh, hitched breaths and urgent moans fill the small room as evening falls outside and it’s both sublime and absolutely obscene.

No, he never got this far in his imaginings but he did assume a sexual encounter with Hannibal Lecter would be more…refined somehow. Not this primitive rutting together reminiscent of horny teenagers.

There’s still far too much fabric still between them and Will breaks from their kiss with a growl.

"Take off your clothes.”

Hannibal quickly does as he’s told, unhanding Will and stepping out of his pants and briefs swiftly. When he stands he lunges, seizing Will in another kiss before he can even register that Hannibal is nude.

It's lamplight that illuminates skin now, skin everywhere, skin, soft and slick and Hannibal’s hands stroke down his shoulders and migrate lower down his sides. They curve around to his ass and then squeeze tightly forcing their cocks together and Will doesn't recognize the sound that comes out of his mouth.

“Tell me. Tell me what you want,” Hannibal beckons again, hands still full of Will’s bottom, massaging teasingly, his voice in Will’s ear spread taught. Will is all animal instinct now, pumping his hips so his dick slides between the wet heat of their stomachs, he’s all touch, all smell, all taste, and he doesn’t even bother to stop himself from biting down, hard, on the tough muscle of Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal at last lets out a true full throated moan.

Will laps at his bite, tries to focus.

"I want-” he mutters breathlessly, nipping once more then moving to nose along Hannibal’s jaw. "God I wanna fuck you.” 

And Hannibal moans again. 

Will doesn’t expect it. He thinks perhaps they’ll keep doing this, thrusting into each other’s palms, dry humping, jerking each other gracelessly until they come.  Will is very okay with that.

Then Hannibal says,

“Yes. Yes, we can do that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really giving yall some narrative blue balls here huh.
> 
> Stay tuned for the shtuping!


End file.
